I woke up this morning in Ajijic, crashed on a sofa of a hotel room I barely recognized. The buzz in my head gave me a pretty accurate idea of how much I drank yesterday: about 5 metric tons (awesome wedding, Luis!). The other Luis got out of one of the rooms and grunted a hello. Pancho had woken up earlier and left for a swim. Pedro and his wife were still asleep in the other room. I dislodged a hairpin that had gotten stuck to my back (a remnant of a veritable army, which had valiantly held Erika’s hairdo upright the whole evening). There was a note affixed to the kitchen wall:

“Breakfast is in the fridge”

We opened the fridge door and — to no one’s surprise — found a six-pack and a lemon.

— sergio at 01:38 PM  

The Roadtrip is the Western take on the search for self-discovery. In a culture severely lacking in contemplative values, we have turned to the outside world in order to discover ourselves. Every personal legend worth its salt must include one or several ventures into the unknown. Every single one of those must be overly romanticized. It is mandatory that a deep, unwavering belief be shattered during the course of it, and that renewed faith in the portents of God/Buddha/Nature/Dog be acquired. Such is the nature of the roadtrip.

Bukowski’s version included drinking away self-loathing until you wake up with an IV sticking out of your arm. Hemingway’s was remarkably similar (with the possible addition of shooting someone along the way). Kerouac’s roadtrip was a way of life.

Our roadtrip started on a Saturday, after we decided to make good on a plan we had hatched since high-school. Our destiny was South-Eastern México and its thereabouts, in the fuzziest possible sense.

Due to time constraints we took a car with us, even though it wasn’t a good candidate to make it into Guatemala. Down there, the car was a rare commodity, and thus provided an easy way of meeting new people. We quickly became accustomed to travelling packed.

Near Palenque, just a hundred yards before the official looking concrete entrance that holds the government notice warning not to harm the national park, you can turn left and go through a small sandy path that leads to Pan-Chan. There, for 15 pesos (slightly over a dollar) you get two posts to hang your hammock from and a hay roof. There are no walls and jungle all around. A benefit of the near-equatorial climate is that usually a blanket is all you need, no matter what season you’re in.

Pan-Chan is divided into two main sections. Rakshitas is a spiritual center for the followers of Gurumayi Chidvilasananda and has an excellent restaurant that specializes in vegetarian cooking. The place is full of vegan new age types, their hammocks arranged in dozens that all start from a common post and extend outward. There are deeply religious reasons for this but I never inquired about them. We stayed in the other section, where most european backpackers end up sooner or later.

The dutch girls hopped into the already crowded car. Grinning from ear to ear, they exchanged a complicity glance. Almost whispering: “We bought posh. We’ll drink it tonight with the rest of the guys!”. From under one of the girls — her back pressing my arm against the roof — I shot an inquisitory glance at Fernando.

- An alcoholic beverage. Not completely distilled. Drink enough, you start hallucinating.
- Ah. mmhhh… so…
- Lack of oxygen to the brain.
- Oh. Tonight should be fun.

Drums have become something of a staple of the backpacking culture. They are built from an enormous variety of materials (a personal favorite: the Choco-Quick container, which can also double up as water-proof storage bin). That night, three of the guys fished theirs out of their backpacks and started doing improvs on the spot. The two dutch girls showed off their new discovery and we started passing bottles and cigarettes around.

- wan a smoke?
- that have tobacco in it?
- yeah, some.
- nah, thanks. I don’t smoke tobacco.
- ‘k. jus pas it on…

In the background we could hear echoes from at least twenty drums from the Italian restaurant (owned by a once-traveller that fell in love with Panchan). We all huddled around our makeshift campfire — a lantern pointing up with a cloth half covering it — and exchanged stories.

Soft singing was still heard when I hunched inside my hammock and closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness.

Morning.

After stretching, Emily took off her jeans and set them aside, she then laid on the floor on her butt and arched her back slightly as she removed her panties and hung them absentmindedly from her hammock. She grabbed another pair and put it on, oblivious to the world around her. At her side, Gabo started stuttering while I faked an air of world weariness, trying not to stare too much.

Emily was from London. She was short and sported thick treadlocks and an impossibly big smile. A volunteer international observer for some Human Rights Organization, she was supposed to go to a community and live for a month with the indigenas. They’d feed and house her, and she would report any human rights transgressions from the Mexican army or the Zapatistas. That was my first reminder that we were in a Guerilla afflicted area.

We would run into Emily three more times over the course of two weeks, each in a different city. The third time Gabo asked her if we could take a picture with her.

People in Pan-Chan were all from different backgrounds. There was a couple that belonged to some sort of Gaia cult. They didn’t drink, dressed mostly in white and had an air of lost hippiehood. They’d have fit better at Woodstock than they did with us. There was the guy who specialized in snapping bones (a skill that turned out to be handier that I would’ve thought). There were mushroom growers in search of new seeds, and a lot of people hailing from Australia, Germany, France, Canada and all sorts of different countries.

We were the only mexicans.

— sergio at 12:35 AM  

I was the Philippines delegate for a Model UN event in high school. Our panel dealt with Sustainable Development and its future. We were supposed to come up with a resolution that would please most of those involved, deal with sensitive international issues in judicious and orderly fashion, and join in on the celebration of the colossal bastion of hope and solidarity that the UN represents.

We were supposed to.

We hadn’t been half an hour into the event when I got the first written message (relayed across buildings by our reliable system of school children — who were convinced they were playing an important part in a portentous, life-changing affair). It was from the Spain delegate. It read: “Isn’t this messaging thing the coolest evahr???”. I promptly scribbled my response in suitably polite fashion and sent the message with another kid. It read something like: “d00d!!! This r00lz!!!”.

By the second day I was hitting on the Delegate from Russia and trying to keep her from finding out that I had a thing going on with Cuba. The highly efficient network of schoolkids could barely keep up with the sheer volume of inter-building messaging traffic we generated — all of them of such clear dramatic and strategic importance as this particular exchange:

• “From Canada, To Philippines - Have you ever seen an elephant hiding behind a lamp post?”
• “From Philippines, To Canada - No. — ?”
• “From Canada, To Philippines - Aren’t they great at hiding? ;-P”
• “From Philippines, To Canada - LOL!!!”

By the third day half the delegates in my panel failed to show up because of issues dealing with hangover. The night before I had been relayed authority by other three delegates to vote for them if the need arose (two were teary eyed and asking me to be their best man at the time, too), and used it to push some of my proposals (which included a caucus to determine who had told the best jokes the previous day).

Russia found out about the thing between me and Cuba, and I never did get that hot russian love. Cuba also found out, but didn’t seem to mind much (I think she had something going with China, but I was never sure). We ended up pushing the proposal of the Pakistani guy (who was the only delegate who had bothered to show up at the proposal draft meeting) without much fuzz.

The purpose of the whole thing was to teach us how the UN ruled over matters of International importance.

At the time, I thought that our UN Model had been a resounding failure.

Every day I grow increasingly convinced that it was an astounding success.

— sergio at 07:00 PM  

Soo… Bloggies took place this morning. I was there through the magic of Chatzilla. Apparently Cory Doctorow won lots of shit, is into Wackypacks and, if the IRC discussion is to be trusted, sniffs other people’s Bicycle seats (but he maintains it’s all innocent and stuff).

We all had a great time. My connection was crap so I kept playing nickname ping pong as the server reassigned me “Overcaffeinated” with extra “_’s” at the end. Word has it that the conversation was being projected on a wall at the SXSW hall, which got us outcasts all riled up (I shouted “titties!”).

Everyone who’s anyone was there. Everyone who’s no one was there. No one who’s everyone was there. There was Kitta (who was staying up late from Oz, and sadly lost to Dan), Scrivs, Cory, Tom Coates (who took the best essay thing and apparently is pushing for “poof blog of the year” next time), Eduardo (¡¡Viva México!!) and lots of other incredibly cool people (someone said they saw Dave Shea somewhere, which sent me bursting into fits of fanboyishness).

A merry time was had by all. I won the Best Latin American blog thing, which was really cool and I want to thank you all. You’re amazing. I hope I can make it to SXSW next year. Reputable sources assure me it is teh shiznit.

— sergio at 04:31 PM  

Jack Healy

The clock bells start a’ringing
Betwixt six and seven sit the handles
in the bed, under the lining
Jack Healy is slowly stirring.

Jack gets up and dons his slippers
in orderly fashion he befits them
first the right one, with torn edges
then the left one, which is leaner.

He gets up and starts the counting
one two three, four suits confront him
at eight buttons per attire
it makes for thirty two, Jack ponders.

Jack busily scrubs his teeth
six seven, eight times skyward
six seven, eight more earthward
“gargle four times and then spit,
‘tis the way of genteel tots”
Jack’s mother did declare
he recalls, in days of yore
  one…
  two…
  three…
  four…
    phtoooh!

Jack Healy’s morning coffee
must be balmy, sweet and potent
Some gents enjoy their sugar
not in cubes, but in powder.
Jack laughs at them, the poor old saps
what’s the point?
     — he reflects —
you can’t count a sugar sand.
  one…
  two…
  three…
    plop! plop! plop!

Ding and dong goes the doorbell
“just in time”, Jack reflects
as he stirs his morning coffee
Fast and brisk he heads
to pick up the London Times

Nothing much has happened.
Nothing much that can be counted.
Ah, but what is this? In big, bold letters:

Her majesty’s royal navy
bids farewell to olden vessels
after threescore years of service

Now, Threescore, there’s a number!
Jack confers, slightly bubbly
Not too big, not too limber
alas, not too shabby either.

And Jack counts
  one…
  two…
  three…

It is time, the clock announces
for Jack to start a’walking
off to work he should be getting
to the balances and checkbooks
and his friends, the good old numbers.

 Step step step Jack is walking
 As Jack walks, he is counting…

Sixty-six, sixty-seven…
  Old man Murray bids him well
  from behind the fishery
  with its acrid, awful smell.

One-hundred and thirty-two, One-hundred and thirty-three…
  ‘morning Jack! — calls James the butcher
  whilst he carves a good sized chunk
  off a purplish cowpart’s nozzle.

Two-hundred and sixty-six, Two-hundred and sixty-seven…
  The graveyard gates stand tall and open
  wind-blown leaves playfully cavorting
  burial silence notwithstanding

  “How bizarre” — Jack does ponder —
  “I would have sworn that yesterday,
  two-hundred and sixty-eight was the number”

And Jack shrugs, and he walks on.

— sergio at 04:35 PM